


Shape

by hylian_reptile



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Big Metaphorical Trees, Felix Yells At Some Trees, Gen, [hiimdaisy voice] iiit's symbooooolic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 19:54:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13934154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hylian_reptile/pseuds/hylian_reptile
Summary: Felix has never liked nature. He doesn’t have the head for it.





	Shape

**Author's Note:**

> experimental felixes

Felix has never liked nature. He doesn’t have the head for it.

 

Some people, especially back in those true-blue army-squad days, were real big on the “leave nature alone” thing, like the green god-given jungle was separate and holier than the dirty hairless flesh-monkeys who’d grown up in it. If you wanna be able to get a grip on your environment, they’d said, then make a map.

 

And maybe that’s how  _ some _ people roll. Locus, eventually, developed quite the head for spatial understanding, like the whole sweaty forest was a singular 3D entity in his head. If not a natural, then he was certainly  _ interested _ in analysis, a methodical interrogation of the world around him, and, ultimately, understanding. 

 

When Felix made a paper map, even a holo-map, he never could get his head around it. Felt a little  _ lied _ to, even, like he’d been scammed by a commercial. The way Locus explained jungle terrain, describing mountains in terms of water run-off and tree growth with topsoil density, you’d think understanding gave him some sort of grasp over the rain and earth itself. In Locus’s own way, military maps and military reports rendering entire swathes of land into military poetry.

 

Made Felix want to smack him upside the head:  _ Cancel monsoon season with your  _ words, _ and then we’ll talk. _

 

No, there was nothing worth examining in that jungle-y shithole. Very… brown. Oppressively big. Felix couldn’t decide if he was suffocating from too many leaves, or if he was popping out of his skin from the sheer lack of walls. He didn’t get these dumb rules nature likes to follow. Seemed arbitrary and unnatural. He wondered why nobody else thinks nature is as crazy as he does. Everything was the same fucking colors. No shape. No direction. No  _ vision. _ Just green, gray, brown, black, and a weird set of rules.

 

He didn’t know that he hates the rule about preserving nature—not back in those days. (Especially not before the fire hit the fan, half the squad reduced to meaty chunks in armored tin cans, and they’re wrecking every tree and root to dredge up whatever shelter they can, piling driftwood to catch themselves as war floods down the mountainside.) But when he followed his marching orders through the brush, hating that he has to let Locus’s bigger frame take the brunt of the underbrush, sealed up in the sterile recycled air inside his full-body suit, he’d had a distinct feeling of being somehow less real than this big, ugly jungle.

 

Which was a bag of bullshit, of course, but that was what he thought, and Felix had never been in the habit of dressing up the inside of his head. This planet and Felix—they were like two images superimposed that had nothing to do with each other. When the dinos came out and the guns went off, people would disappear into the green, gray brown dirt, shapes disappearing while the other image went on.

 

It didn't have to be like that, he'd thought. It _wouldn't_ be like that if someone would just cut these fucking trees  _ down. _

 

One day, when they were following coordinates to the rendezvous and Locus was carefully plotting the way back to base, Felix took out his knife, held it to the tree’s skin, and marked the way that they’d come.

 

* * *

 

One day, after Chorus, Locus will look at the knife markings Felix had left along his chest. He won’t understand.


End file.
